


Kompromat

by svartalfheimr



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Commander Fox Week, Gen, Imperial Era, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, New Republic era, Nightmares, Old Republic Era, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25530598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svartalfheimr/pseuds/svartalfheimr
Summary: Prompt fills for Commander Fox Week 2020. Each chapter title contains the prompt, characters and trigger warnings. No pairings but it's a full on angst fest; ye be warned
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox & Boba Fett, CC-1010 | Fox & CC-4477 | Thire, CC-1010 | Fox & CT-6116 | Kix, CC-2224 | Cody & CC-1010 | Fox
Comments: 20
Kudos: 117





	1. Mind Control; Imperial Era – Fox & Cody, Darth Vader (tw: suicide ideation)

CC-1010 is staring at the blank wall in front of him, his third cup of caf of the day in hand, when he feels it.

His knee has been killing him these last few months and, when he looks in the mirror, his hair is more grey than black. He’s not bald, never had a receding hairline like so many of the other clones, but he went grey at the temples earlier than most. 

The caf gently rotates in his cup even though his hand doesn’t move. He tilts it, just a little, and the liquid spills onto his glove. A drop of brown runs on the white. His gauntlet used to be red.

In three hours, Lord Vader will arrive. He hasn’t been graced with his presence in years. He doubts the Sith remembers him. The rebel cell here has caused them trouble for months now. His first meeting with them resulted in three casualties on their side and one busted knee—unfortunately his own. He hadn’t expected one of the rebels to send him flying through the marketplace only to crash on parked speeders, just by raising a hand. They know who she is now: a relic from the past who should have been buried under the ashes of the old Republic. She managed to survive but, in the end, it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t belong here anymore.

His head feels clear—clearer than it’s been in years. It’s funny, he thinks, because he never noticed it wasn’t.

“Incoming transmission from Kamino, sir,” one of the troopers informs him. He doesn’t recognize his voice. It’s not very surprising; he stopped learning their designations three years ago. They either die quickly or are sent somewhere they will truly be useful. If they stay under his command, they’re not worth the effort.

He hates the trooper’s voice, all at once. He hates it more than anything else in the galaxy and he has no idea why. “Dismissed,” he intones, gulping down the rest of his lukewarm slush. He puts his helmet back on and turns back to his desk, where the tiny holoproj is. The hologram of an armor entirely similar to his own appears. CC-2224, his HUD indicates.

“Commander,” he greets. The hologram is walking, with one hand raised, palm facing up, probably holding his own holocom. The connexion stutters when he stops moving then makes a gesture with his other hand, tapping with his finger on something unseen. He takes two steps then takes off his helmet.

“Do you feel it?” CC-2224 asks, tone hushed. It’s ridiculous. Their communication is far from being private. There’s no point in whispering.

“Feel what, commander?”

The hologram stares at him but remains silent. He hasn’t seen his face in years. There are lines now that are similar to his own and others that they don’t share. He’s got another scar, one that starts from his chin and slashes through half of his face. A vibroblade, he’d guess, a souvenir from the fledgling years of the Empire considering how old the scar seems to be.

“The silence. The lack of—” CC-2224 grimaces and blinks, unable to find the right words. “I haven’t felt like this since—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Since when? He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t want an answer. CC-2224 stares back at him.

“Take off your helmet,” the hologram demands. No, he wants to reply.

“I don’t have time for a social call,” he says instead. CC-2224 puts a hand over his mouth.

“You feel it, too,” the hologram whispers, closing his eyes, shoulders slouching. “I gave the order. On Utapau.”

The non-sequitur takes him a couple of blinks. He doesn’t know every assignment CC-2224 was sent to before his permanent post on Kamino but the Battle of Utapau is historically important enough to know exactly what he’s talking about.

There’s no point dwelling on events that happened years ago. There’s no point talking about them. It won’t change a thing. He takes the empty cup of caf and looks at it from different angles. A few remaining droplets fall down on his white boot.

“If you’re done, now, commander—”

“Cody,” CC-2224 growls, cutting him off. “My name is Cody.”

“No, it isn’t,” he replies harshly. “It never was. Don’t you see?”

The cup breaks under his grip. Both of them startle. He stares at his hand, uncaring of the pieces falling down on the ground. It’s shaking. Why can’t he control it?

“Nothing changed,” he says. He clenches his fist. “We still have a duty: to protect the—”

He has to close his mouth to stop whatever sound may come out. He releases a shaky breath through his nose.

“There’s no Republic anymore,” Cody says. “The Republic died along with the—”

“The last remaining clones will be relieved from duty within the year, commander,” he cuts him off. “In the meantime, you still have a job to do. Do not forget the debt of gratitude we owe to the Empire.”

He nods sharply then cuts off the transmission. They wouldn’t be here without the Empire. He opens his hand, stares at his gloved palm. It’s not shaking anymore.

He thinks he can feel it, a couple of hours later. He doesn’t care about the Force, doesn’t understand why many people put faith in something they cannot clearly sense, but, at this precise moment, he thinks he does. The sky outside is pink, nightfall coming, and they’re in the middle of the dry season, when the earth is scorching hot and whoever has a defective cooling system passes out quickly. At this precise moment, though, everything feels cold.

Lord Vader enters the room and brings with him a heavy silence, only intermittently broken by the sound of his mechanical breathing. He has to close his eyes at the violent assault of a memory—him accompanying the Supreme Chancellor on Mustafar to retrieve the scorched, mutilated carcass of a Jedi, putting it inside a casket made of transparisteel from which their enemy came out. He feels bile at the back of his throat, thinking about the Sith Lord snapping Thire’s neck with a simple twist of his fingers.

Lord Vader killed Thire simply because he did not provide a detailed description of the Sith to his men. A Jedi would’ve never done that.

His hand starts shaking again. He tries to stop it but can’t seem to control it. Hatred fills him and he wants to scream in anger at the monster standing in front of him. He doesn’t move.

The Sith halts when he’s in the middle of the room. The admiral greets him with a profusion of inane pleasantries that seem to be ignored. The mask turns toward him. This is it, he thinks, this is how it ends. How fitting.

The mask dips, slightly, in what could be considered a parody of a nod, then turns back to the admiral. His entire body is on high alert. He’s been dismissed.

The Sith does not move for the rest of the meeting. The rhythm of his breathing never wavers. He stays silent through the whole ordeal. After a while, the admiral has nothing else to say.

“I will take a firing squad,” Lord Vader states. He turns back to the exit and says, “Commander, with me.”

He’s the only commander in the room. “Yes, my lord.” He obeys.

He follows him two steps behind. The cape brushes his ankle. He wants to throw up but keeps walking.

“You will lead the men,” Lord Vader orders. He nods in compliance.

“Yes, my lord.”

It’s funny because, for the first time in a while, he feels his mind is clear. He can’t explain what changed, or why it feels that way; he just knows that it does. With clarity comes anger, hatred, directed at the galaxy and at himself. Underneath it lie guilt and anguish. 

There’s only a couple of months left. Less than a year and all the clones will be decommissioned, considered too old to be fit for duty. A couple of months and they will all be free.

He’s never been free; he doesn’t know what it means or what it represents when it’s about him. He can’t wish for something he doesn’t understand. But Cody can and others as well.

He’s never really had a Jedi. Not like Cody did. He doesn’t know how it feels.

He’s always been loyal to the Empire. He’s never done anything that could be considered traitorous. He’s never participated in illegal dealings. He’s been the epitome of clone loyalty. If he rebels now, it will raise questions.

The Sith stops but doesn’t turn back. “Be ready in ten,” he says, standing still.

“Yes, my lord,” he replies, extinguishing any emotion he may feel. He stares at the imposing cape, waiting to be dismissed. The Sith is taller than General Skywalker.

It seems like an eternity although it may be closer to a couple of seconds but, finally, Lord Vader marches away. His knee throbs. He wants to sit down but he knows he can’t; his knee will never forgive him when he gets up and he can’t very much break down in the corridor. 

Only a couple of months, he tells himself. A couple of months and the clones will be free.

He doesn’t care about his own freedom but he won’t act. If he does, he may not be the only one punished. He takes a deep breath then goes to the barracks.

With any luck, Fox will die on the battlefield.


	2. High-speed Chase; Clone War Era – Fox & Thire

**r/HoloNews - posted by u/teamfondorfan69 · 12 hours ago · 5 Awards**

## [Coruscant] High-speed chase ends in serious crash

nttps://cdn.hol/news/1QkEYpbWM…

_The incident began when officers received reports of a late night altercation outside a cantina in the Uscru Entertainment District, a police spokesperson told the Coruscant Daily Newsfeed. An individual matching the suspect’s description was then reported to have just speederjacked…_

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> **moncalamaripizza2 739 points · 11 hours ago · 1 Award**

> [ _The police chase ended when the stolen airspeeder was rammed into a cantina by a clone shock trooper who proceeded to stun the suspect. The suspect was then safely taken into custody by police droids. “Our orders were to apprehend the suspect. No innocent bystanders got hurt,” said clone trooper CC-1010._ ]

> What a karking sleemo. Tell that to the people traumatized in the cantina because you went all gung ho on a stupid kid. This is why clones should stick to the war; they’re just demolition droids.

“How many?” Thire asks, holopad in hand but still staring at the window. Neon lights slowly replace daylight. Fox knows it’s his favorite time of the day.

“Three,” he admits. “He stabbed a shiny outside 79’s after a drug deal gone wrong. Two troopers assaulted him before he got away. The shiny died after a couple of minutes.”

“The troopers?”

“Sent back to Kamino this morning.” Thire nods but stays silent. “The cantina was closed,” Fox adds and immediately regrets it.

“Will he be charged? For the shiny.”

“He’ll face vandalism charges, maybe,” Fox intones. “You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Thire mutters, eyes roaming over the expanse of Coruscanti traffic. “I know how it is.”

Thire rattles his gloved fingers on Fox’s vambrace. His hand twitches but otherwise he doesn’t move. He stares at the holopad, where he sees some footage of the crash, courtesy of passersby. It’s always the same scene put on a loop: Fox jumping off his speeder to throw himself at the suspect and stunning him in the process. The footage of them crashing through the front window of the cantina is from another angle, one from which it is difficult to see that the establishment in question is still under construction.

Fox seems to be more machine than man, adorned in full regalia while the kid is clearly on the thin side, with a coat too large for his small frame. It becomes almost too easy to draw hasty conclusions—and since spitting on the boys in red is a favorite pastime among Coruscanti…

 _I karked up_ , he wants to say but he doesn’t. If he did then Thire would feel obligated to say he didn’t, which they both know is a big fat lie. His stunt provoked the ire of civilians who have been waiting for an opportunity like this. The war is starting to take its toll on everyone and even Coruscant feels its impact. Their presence among civilians is only a reminder of how much life has changed for all of them.

Better him than someone else, he thinks. At least, Fox is used to taking the heat. It won’t only be him, though, but that’s something he can’t do anything about. It’s too late now.

“He lives,” Thire says. Thank the Force he does. Had Fox killed him—“I would’ve done the same thing.”

He doesn’t dwell on what ifs; it’s not what they were made for, so he doesn’t add anything to the conversation. He watches Coruscant and allows himself one minute. The skylanes in his mind blur and, instead of airspeeders, he sees aiwhas.

Fox fiercely wishes he could be one right now.

It’s just a dream, a ridiculous one at that, and he never shared it with anyone else but there are times when he looks at the sky and all he can see is never ending rain, lightning hitting the sea and he can almost taste the non-polluted air of Tipoca City. Aiwhas are fierce creatures, capable of living in the skies and the seas, free to choose where to go and how to live, only restrained by biological imperatives. The Kaminoans use them as mounts; they serve their purpose as much as the clones do yet Fox can’t help but think they are nonetheless closer to freedom than the clones would ever be. It’s unlikely aiwhas realize it; they aren’t sentient, after all. He wonders how it would feel.

The minute has passed. Fox watches the skylanes of Coruscant, his brother at his side, and lets reality settle in.


	3. Solitude; Imperial Era – Fox, Darth Vader (tw: body horror)

“I’m low on ammo, sir,” TK-144 reiterates. His grip on the E-11 is steady. Behind them, a grenade detonates, sending shards of transparisteel all around them. Fox’s HUD glitches, again. They’re pinned down; rebels are firing like they know this is their last stand. Unfortunately for him, it seems they want to make the most of it.

It’s just TK-144 and him. Both of their blasters are pretty much done. The rebels haven’t caught on it yet but it’s just a matter of time. He looks around him. Two on their side are down. The one on his left has their head twisted the wrong way. The one on his right has a hole right in their center of mass. Fox’s HUD doesn’t glitch when he looks at them; he can clearly see their designations. He takes their blasters, throws one at TK-144 and keeps the other one to himself. They won’t use them anymore. He takes a look at the rebel bag he snatched. Three thermal detonators. V-1s. He hasn’t seen those since the Clone Wars. They’re old relics, unreliable and dangerous. It’s just as well.

Fox takes one in hand and activates it. Then he waits. TK-144 twitches. “S–sir? Sir!”

He takes a deep breath and throws it right at the spot where the old Z-6 is blasting. The detonator explodes on impact. There are no screams following—just silence.

TK-144 lets out a bumbling laugh. It goes away as quickly as it came but it leaves an undefinable mark. Fox stares at him for just a second and, when he blinks, he doesn’t see TK-144 anymore. The white paint is the same but everything else about him is different. His armor is suddenly sturdier; his helmet is more angular and TK-144 is just—bigger. They’re not pinned down in a market anymore; they’re covered in red dust, the mesas of Geonosis on the horizon, and TK-144 laughs like a brother would. Fox can almost hear the whoops in the background, DC-17s firing and the heavy stomps of AT-TEs. He bites his tongue, harshly, enough to draw blood and lets the coppery taste invade his mouth, bringing him back to the present.

TK-144 moves before Fox can push him back down. He doesn’t have time to yell, to warn him, to tell him to get down; a single blast goes right through his helmet. His body falls like dead weight.

“We have you surrounded!” one of the rebels shouts. “Come out now and we won’t shoot!”

Fox snorts. Like hell he will. From what he gathered, the detonators took out most of them. Apart from the sharp-shooter, he estimates there are only three left, all flanked on the same side. He could try to take them out one by one. It could work; they’re bound to move—if they really want to have him surrounded they don’t have much of a choice. His HUD peters out. Fox’s helmet becomes useless. Considering the firepower they have, whether he wears it or not won’t change his fate. He takes it off and draws in a sharp breath. It smells like burnt meat and dust. It’s not very surprising.

The market is silent and it feels like everything goes still for an instant. Fox’s breath rings loud in his ears. He shivers, not knowing why, and his whole body feels cold. That’s when he hears it.

Mechanical breathing resonates throughout the place, followed by a low, humming sound. Fox’s blood chills. It shouldn’t; he knows that sound. It’s supposed to bring comfort—a lightsaber means the Force is on their side—yet, from the moment Lord Vader ignited his lightsaber, Fox felt like all life around him was sucked out instantly. 

He hears the blaster shots, the tell-tale sound of a lightsaber deflecting them, followed by shouts of horror and the unmistakable crack of broken bones. On his peripheral vision he sees a body thrown onto the nearest wall at inhuman speed; the impact causes a horrid sound and the corpse slides down on the ground, leaving trails of gore behind. Fox has seen worse; during the fledgling years of the Empire, his status as a commander led him to the most gruesome battlefields and on missions with shadow troopers that he would rather forget. But it’s been years. Fox is old now, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, and he hasn’t seen action in a long time. He’s almost past his usefulness. The Empire knew he was over before he even realized it; he’s spent the last years on a backwater planet, playing bully around farmers who couldn’t care less about rebellion. The biggest event they have all year round is the first day of the monsoon. Fox is a relic, one the Empire couldn’t care less about.

If only that rebel cell never came here, he thinks. He got used to the quiet; he got used to being the highest ranking officer and the perks that come with it. The truth is, Fox spent most of the time on his own, watching farmers working on their crops from afar. He’s never known peace before coming here and, now that he got a little taste, he is reluctant to let go of it. Life here was mostly quiet and his presence here was unwanted but unchallenged. Fox was, for lack of a better word, alone. What’s funny is that he didn’t mind it. Clones are very sociable creatures; they grew up without knowing what being alone means and most of their life was built around brothers.

It’s been years since Fox saw another brother. It’s been years since someone paid attention to him. He had to adapt—and he did, very well if you ask him. Fox learned to crave these moments, when he can sense no one else but him. 

It’s a peaceful planet with little imperial activity. It’s not surprising rebels came here to lay low. It’s unfortunate that Fox is still good at his job.

The screams stopped a minute ago. The only sounds in the market are those made by Vader. Fox looks at his hands; they’re shaking. He hears boots on the ground, crushing everything in their path like they were made for it. He hears the lightsaber closing in on him. He should stand up. He should make a sound. He should react. He doesn’t.

“You can come out now, commander,” Vader intones. Fox can’t perceive what’s hidden behind the words—is he mocking him? Is he angry? Indifferent? 

Fox stands up abruptly and his helmet drops on the ground. Its fall echoes on the remaining walls around them. He stares at the mask like it holds all the answers.

“I don’t feel lonely anymore,” he blurts out before he can think it through. He closes his mouth but doesn’t avert his gaze. The plasma blade retracts into the hilt. Lord Vader stands his ground but doesn’t say anything. His mechanical breathing never changes rhythm. Fox’s hands are shaking. “Now that I’m alone, I don’t feel lonely.”

He doesn’t know why he says it, why he feels the need to say it—why he’s telling Vader of all people. He knows he’s shaking and, at the corner of his mind, alarms are ringing. What he’s doing is insane; he must look like a deranged old man. There’s no one else here; if Vader were to kill him, there’s nothing Fox could do and no one who would care.

The Sith doesn’t move. He could be a statue if it weren’t for his breathing.

Fox takes a sharp breath and the smell of burnt flesh invades his senses. He closes his eyes for an instant. It’s almost like he’s back there. He can almost feel the heat of the lava seeping through his blacks, see the mutilated body of General Skywalker, hear Palpatine saying _he’s still alive_ like he couldn’t believe it. The air filter on his helmet never let Fox smell anything. How grateful he’d been for it.

He opens his eyes and Lord Vader turns his back to him. Fox wants to scream.

“You’ve always been alone, Commander Fox,” the Sith says then walks away, leaving him on his own, surrounded by the dead.


	4. Scars; Imperial Era – Fox & Boba Fett

“Aren’t you a little old for a stormtrooper?”

Fox has nothing to remember his brothers by. No images, no recordings, no written notes. Nothing but memories. He takes a glance at the bounty hunter leaning against the doorway. Younger voice. Mandalorian armor. Right height, right build.

“We’re the same age,” he tells him, staring at his own helmet. He’s had it longer than his Phase II yet he’s still not used to it. He doesn’t count the years anymore. 

“Why are you here?” the little poodoo asks. They’re on a Star Destroyer. Fox has every reason to be here. This one, on the other hand…

“I work here,” he says. He puts his helmet on the bench and extends his legs. His knee cracks the wrong way. He doesn’t grimace but he regrets every choice he ever made. “What do you want?”

The bounty hunter doesn’t answer. Fox sighs. He’s in no mood to play games. He puts on his gloves and waits. Truth is, Fox really is too old. All the clones were decommissioned a while ago. It’s only Fox now. There’s nothing particularly special about him anymore. His sight isn’t what it used to be. His back is killing him every single karking morning. Each of his joints cracks at one point or another. He wants to take a nap. All the time. He definitely can’t keep up with the young ones. He’s still here, though. It’s… surprising, especially for someone who doesn’t know why he’s still here.

A couple of years ago, Fox was snatched by Vader, pulled away from his nearly-forgotten outpost on a backwater planet in the Outer Rim. At the time, he was certain he wouldn’t survive a month. It’s been years now. He’s still not sure why he’s here but he is. 

Fox hasn’t seen action ever since. Mostly, he accompanies Vader whenever the Sith feels like it. He’s as much a decorative feature as his cape is and he’s probably just as useful. He’s expected to be around when Lord Vader graces imperial officers with his presence. Fox will be on the bridge with Grand Moffs and Admirals, standing at attention behind the Sith. And that’s about it.

Fox hates his job. It serves no purpose.

“Today’s my birthday,” the bounty hunter states.

Well. Fox wasn’t expecting that. He stands up. The other man tenses; it’s subtle but Fox already knows all his tells. 

If he takes off his helmet, he would look the same age Thire did when he died. Bounty hunting is a dangerous profession but maybe his face is still unblemished. Fox’s hands twitch. He could ask. He could probably take it off the little poodoo’s head himself.

Fox doesn’t move. The man is wearing beskar. Maybe he never takes it off. It wouldn’t be surprising. The Clone Wars ended more than a decade ago but the old timers still remember. Right now, the kid probably looks like a bad memory.

Fox doesn’t. Not anymore. He ages twice as fast as natborns but since life has never been kind to him, he looks even older. 

And that’s when it hits him.

He looks older than Jango Fett ever did. Right now, he probably looks the same age the original would if he was still kicking. They share the same face but there are still differences; Fox’s right cheek has ugly marks left by shrapnel since Mimban and he’s got a little souvenir from a blaster shot grazing the left side of his jaw on Ryloth.

But that’s probably not the point.

“Happy birthday, Boba,” he says. 

Boba Fett stays still, arms crossed, his shoulder leaning on the door frame, feigning nonchalance. He stares at him for a long moment but doesn’t say anything. Fox stares back. Boba raises one of his hands and hooks his thumb to the underside of his helmet. The other hand follows. When he starts to take it off, Fox closes his eyes. He realizes at once that he doesn’t want to see Boba’s face. He doesn’t want to see it because it won’t be his brother’s.

Fox has nothing to remember his brothers by. No images, no recordings, no written notes. Nothing but memories. 

After a while, the bounty hunter steps back and leaves. Fox listens to his footsteps, eyes closed until he can’t hear them anymore. 


	5. Touch-starved; Clone War Era – Fox (tw: anxiety)

Fox wakes up drenched in cold sweat. He doesn’t remember why. **  
**

It’s still night outside. The neon lights of Coruscant illuminate the whole room. Day or night, his room is never dark. He sits up and wills his hammering heart to calm down. He feels cold. He shouldn’t; room temperature is always regulated at 19 degrees standard.

He used to love his tiny flat, one of the perks that comes with being CG command. The privacy it gives him. He used to love it. He’s come to hate it with his entire being. He can’t stand the sight of it anymore. If he could torch the whole place down, he would. 

They don’t get pods in the barracks on Coruscant—not like they did on Kamino. Brothers are piled up in bunks whether they want it or not. From the moment they were stationed in the capital planet, they forfeited their right to privacy. Well, if they aren’t officers, that is. And even then, Fox knows Thorn’s flat is always empty. If he wants to find him when he’s not on duty, he goes to Thire’s. They don’t really talk about it but everyone knows even the officers don’t bunk alone.

Everyone but Fox.

It wasn’t a conscious choice, not at first. It seemed fitting for a commander. He’s not supposed to fraternize with the men. It didn’t occur to him that it wouldn’t be the same with officers until it was too late.

He could go to Thire. Thorn is currently off-planet, escorting Senator Amidala. Thire knows him best; they’re batchmates. Fox knows him. He knows he isn’t shy about showing his brothers he loves them. It’s the little things—a pat on the back, an arm around the shoulders, a tap with his helmet. Sometimes Thire will ruffle some shiny’s hair or hip check a brother in jest. He often rattles his fingers on Fox’s vambrace when they’re alone.

Thire knows him. So why can’t he move? What’s stopping him? It doesn’t make any sense.

Fox clenches his fists. His nails bite into his skin. He can’t do it. It’s kark o’clock in the morning. If he does, he’ll wake Thire up. Fox has no reason to go to him. They’re both off duty and there are no emergencies. There’s no way his brother won’t know what happened. 

He crosses his arms over his chest, lets his hands slide up his arms until each of them can squeeze his shoulders. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and ignores how constricted his throat feels. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine how his brother’s arms would feel around him.

Fox lets out a choked laugh. He can’t do it. He can’t quite picture it. He doesn’t remember what it feels like. He lies back down. He stares at the ceiling, fingers buried in the sheets and wills his body to go back to sleep. When he blinks, daylight is already invading the room. He doesn’t think he fell back asleep. He gets up, goes to the fresher and puts on his shell.

If he’s fast enough, he’ll catch Thire drink caf in the Officers’ mess. With any luck, his brother will rattle his fingers against his vambrace. It’s enough for Fox. It has to be.


	6. Magic; Imperial Era – Fox, Darth Vader

Mud seeps through his blacks, settling into his boots. Fox sighs. His knee throbs in anticipation. He can’t wait to see what that whole ordeal will do to his feet. **  
**

To hell with Vader, he thinks sourly. Fox never asked for any of this. Why can’t he just retire? Why does he have to walk through the mud on a backwater planet no one gives poodoo about? He’s literally doing someone else’s job. Why is he the one sent to hunt down some washed-up chuba?

Yes. To hell with Vader, he thinks, once again planting his left foot right into yet another mudhole. Kark everything. Fox is too old. He deserves to die on his own terms. He doesn’t even wish to go out in a blaze of glory on the battlefield anymore. He just wants to be left alone. Heck, he gave everything to the Republic then anything left and more to the Empire. Why can’t they just let him go out in peace?

The young ones tread easily out front. He wants to shoot them. He’s almost certain he can without getting any heat because Fox gets special treatment now. He doesn’t really care but he knows what others say about him. An old relic that has no business being here anymore. Even his faceless helmet can’t really hide the fact that he’s too old. His blacks are too tight. He’s never sent out in the field when they have to walk for hours on end. If he sits down on whichever available seat there is on the bridge, no one will comment on it. Fox thinks it’s because they don’t know how Vader would react and they’d rather not find out.

“We’ve picked up a signal, sir,” one of the men says. Fox lets out a heavy sigh. Of course they have. Well. He’s not getting out of this anytime soon. 

The girl they’re after is young, probably born a couple of years before the Clone War. She wasn’t registered in the Jedi archives but there’s no doubt she’s Force sensitive. Which is why Fox is pissed. This isn’t their job. You don’t send stormtroopers after these guys. You send Vader’s pets.

He snorts. He may actually count as one. If he isn’t, then he has no idea why the kark he’s still here. Vader gains nothing from keeping Fox around. He probably gets a kick out of it. There’s no doubt Fox looks ridiculous, half drenched in mud, grumbling about being too old for any of this poodoo.

Vader sent him on a useless mission two days ago. Recon, he said. Get out of my sight before I choke you to death, Fox heard. It’s just his luck they spooked the girl enough for her to throw them on the other side of the street with a simple sweep of her hand. Karking Jedi and their magic tricks.

She didn’t kill any of them. She knocked out the most durable but that’s about it. That’s how Fox knew he was doomed. If she were one of Vader’s pets, she wouldn’t have any qualms about killing one or two just for sport. If— _when_ they find her, he won’t be surprised if she brandishes a laser sword in any color but red. 

Karking Jedi, he thinks. Nature gifted them with magical powers and they decided to use them for good. To be kind and selfless. Look where that got them. 

After another hour in the mud, Fox calls it quits. The men are tired. He’s exhausted. Clearly, she was smart enough to hide or leave the planet while she still could. They set up camp on a clearing. As soon as they’re allowed, the men take off their helmets and start cleaning their gear. Fox takes the first shift. He doesn’t really want to deal with them more than necessary. The biker scouts will take over the search. All he has to worry about is the safety of the men in his charge.

He hears her after two hours. The men are snoring; the fire is all but dying. He takes his night scopes out. There she is. 74.9 degrees. He scowls. What the heck does she think she’s doing? He puts the scopes down. Slowly, he starts covering the white of his armor with mud. He doesn’t have much to do; he’s already soaking in it. He signals to the man on watch with him and proceeds on his own. He doesn’t go straight for her position—rather, he slowly spirals around her. When he notices she doesn’t react, he stills. She should feel him. If she really is strong with the Force, she should already know he’s here. Why isn’t she moving?

When he feels the blow to the back of his head, it’s too late. Fox goes down easily.

He’s sitting when he comes back to reality. He performs a quick check. Left foot, right foot. Left hand, right hand. Knees, shoulders, hips. Everything’s still here. Everything hurts but that’s not really surprising. It always does. 

His helmet is missing. He can feel the magna cuffs cutting out his blood circulation. Fox sighs. To hell with Vader, indeed. He hears footsteps coming towards him. He tenses despite himself.

“You’re a clone,” a young female voice says. Fox grimaces. 50 credits says it’s exactly who he thinks it is. “I didn’t know any of you still worked for the Empire.”

“We don’t,” he grumbles. “It’s just me.” There are a couple left, he heard, but he doesn’t need to tell her that. He opens his eyes and there she is. The girl they’re after.

“Why?” she asks. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. He really doesn’t. He’s been working under Vader for years now and he still has no idea why. He’s not stupid enough to ask but he’s stupid enough to go with it without saying anything even though he hates every single second of it.

His relationship with Vader is… weird. They never talk. Fox is mostly told to stay close and… that’s it. Nothing else. It’s extremely boring. The first year, Fox did everything he was told with gusto. But then, the months started to accumulate and, with them, his body started to protest about pretty much anything. When year two came to an end, Fox was already done with everything. Oh, he kept following orders. He always walked two steps behind the dark lord, stayed put when he was expected to, ran useless errands whenever the Sith grew annoyed with him. Or similar, Fox thinks. He has no idea; Vader never talks to him. Fox thinks he’s pretty much Vader’s own portable potted space plant. Useless, visually unappealing and only requiring low maintenance. A glorified plant—that’s what he is now. 

“You are close to the Sith,” she states. She crouches, puts a hand under her chin, looking at him like he’s some sort of intriguing experiment. A vague, disgusting wave of childhood nostalgia hits him. “Why is that?”

“My charming personality,” he deadpans. She smiles softly. He has to avert his gaze. Nobody has smiled at him in years—in over a decade, maybe.

Fox is sure about one thing: he needs to buy time. If he keeps being obtuse, he’ll gain enough time. It’s a strange certainty but it’s one nonetheless—if he survives long enough, Vader will arrive. He doesn’t really think much about it most of the time but, now that he does, he realizes how weird that is. He tries to think about something else. Yeah. That’s probably why he doesn’t think much about it. It makes him uncomfortable.

It seems Vader doesn’t care much about his potted plant until someone else tries to snatch it away from him. 

It takes at least ten more minutes of mind games and sarcastic retorts but the air shifts at once. The girl falls silent and Fox decidedly feels cold sweat dripping down his nape. The heat is suffocating in the room he was put in yet a shiver runs through his entire body. 

“I have to go,” she tells him, like they’re just old friends who decided to share a cup of caf together. He snorts.

“I think it’s too late for that, now,” he replies. She smiles and waves a hand in front of his face. His whole body tenses. He starts shaking uncontrollably. It’s when he sees the confused look on her face that he notices he’s talking. No, no, not again, Fox keeps repeating. He sees pity cross her face and he wants to scream.

“Oh,” she whispers. “What happened to you?”

The last thing he hears before he loses consciousness is his own voice begging.

This time when he comes back to reality, it’s a familiar breathing pattern that greets him. He opens his eyes and there he is. The dark lord’s back faces him, the long cape flowing despite the lack of wind. Fox thinks he should be relieved. He isn’t. He doesn’t feel much of anything, actually. Quiet resignation, maybe.

The magna cuffs magically fall down on the ground. He clenches his fists, testing. He’s good to go. There’s no one here but Vader so Fox takes the opportunity for privacy and takes all the time he can to get up. His back is killing him nonetheless.

“I’m too old for this,” he mutters under his breath. Vader doesn’t act like he’s heard him. Fox stretches, slowly. He hears hurried footsteps behind the door. If he was taken to the rebels’ base, he doubts there’s any left alive by now. He takes his helmet, left forgotten on the ground, discarded like a piece of junk. When one of the men shows up, he puts it as quickly as he can. 

“Where’s the girl?” Fox asks him. Vader has yet to acknowledge his presence. The trooper shifts, uncomfortable. Ah. It’s going to be one of these days, then. Well. He should get ready. He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. The trooper doesn’t wait to be told twice. Fox stops himself from snorting. If they’re all going to be shifty like that around Vader, he’s going to get pissed even more quickly.

“Admiral Thrawn is waiting for us, commander,” Lord Vader intones. Fox doubts the Chiss is actually waiting for him but he gets the gist.

“Yes, my lord,” he says mindlessly. As soon as Vader starts walking he falls into step behind him. Suddenly he wonders if the Sith ever tried one of his magic tricks on him, if he’s trained him to be this docile. Fox doesn’t know if he’d prefer it to be the case or not. One way or another, he doesn’t like what it says about him.

When they step outside, the sun glares at them like it’s its sole duty and blazing heat seeps through Fox’s blacks. It’s a scorching hot day but he feels cold and vaguely empty. He always does when he’s around Vader. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t want to know why. He’s afraid to know why. Because if he can guess then that means Vader already knows.

A glorified potted plant is what Fox is. Nothing more, nothing less. If he convinces himself enough, he’ll start to believe it.


	7. Tattoos/Coma; New Republic Era – Fox & Kix

“I was a combat medic with the 501st. Torrent company,” the young clone says then flashes a blinding light at his face. “We, uh, we actually met once. You… probably don’t remember me.”

At first, Fox thinks it’s some kind of elaborate joke at his expense. It could be. It’s a bit far fetched but it could be if they’re committed to it. The clone looks so young. It’s unfair. He looks like he hasn’t seen a day since the Clone War. 

“How old are you?” Fox blurts out. The clone looks surprised. Well. It’s the first time Fox talks to him, after all.

“I’m fourteen, sir.” 

Kark, of course he is. “Why aren’t you working for the Empire, then?”

The clone looks at him and frowns. “The Empire’s gone, sir. It’s been thirty years, give or take.”

Fox allows himself a minute to process, well, everything. It’s not every day you wake up to the sight of a brother who looks twice as young as you and tells you you’ve been asleep for close to forty years.

“I don’t remember what happened,” he says. His head hurts like hell—his entire body does but then Fox is used to it. It’s called being old. The clone stabs him with a hypo without warning and he growls. “Ow,” he spits with emphasis. 

“It’s that or carbon sickness,” the clone comments off-handedly. “How long have you been working for, uh, the Empire?”

“Fourteen years,” Fox says and ignores the flinch he gets. “I guess you were carbon frozen as well.”

“Something similar, yeah,” he mutters. “It was—before the end of the war. The Clone War, I mean.” He falls silent after that. Fox raises an eyebrow. If it’s true then he’s never known the Empire. 

A surge of jealousy rises within him but he quickly extinguishes it. The kid never saw the rise of the Empire, never saw what the Republic transformed into, never had to hunt down the Jedi, never had to realize on one random day that his thoughts hadn’t really been his own for more than a decade. No—the kid woke up in a galaxy where all his brothers were long dead, where he was the last survivor and where no one would give poodoo about him. No one ever really gave poodoo about the clones but at least they had each other. The kid had no one.

Fox stares at his face. He’s definitely slimmer but there’s fat in his cheeks that Fox lost years ago and his eyes look young even if they don’t really shine. His hair is entirely black; there’s not a single strand of grey and it doesn’t look he’s going to be bald. There’s the beginning of a tattoo visible on his temple. Suddenly Fox’s heart aches. It could be feelings or it could just be because he’s old. Who knows. 

“A good droid is a dead one,” he thinks, remembering. It’s when the clone freezes that he realizes he said it out loud.

“I remember you,” he still says. He almost arrested him once. First year of the war if he remembers well; he and his brothers got too rowdy with boys from the 212th, leading to civilians calling the police, leading to the police calling Fox. Four of them and three from the 212th. He remembers the ones with him: one with a Republic cog tattooed on his face, one with wide, innocent eyes full of bantha poodoo and Fives. It was more than a year before Fox shot—before he—he—

He groans. His head hurts like someone played bolo-ball with it. It’s been years but still; sometimes, when Fox tries to remember a specific event, he can’t seem to recall it and his head starts throbbing until he starts thinking about something else. It’s mostly memories pre-Empire–those ones hurt real hard–but sometimes it’s also about some of the missions Lord Vader sent him on.

“I’m Kix,” the clone says softly, stopping Fox from spiraling. One of his hands settled on Fox’s shoulder. He can’t remember when exactly.

“Fox,” he replies, even though they both know he already knows. Still. It seems fitting.

Kix smiles and there’s so much sadness in it that Fox wants to avert his gaze. He doesn’t. I see you, he wants to say. He can’t recall how to make his throat work.

It’s been years since he saw a brother. The last one was Cody and it was a hologram. It was the day Fox realized his thoughts became his own again. He told Cody not to say anything, to act like nothing changed. They only had a couple of months left before the Empire would decommission the clones, deeming them too old to be of service. Fox cut down the transmission silently praying whatever deities would be available to stop his brother from doing something stupid. He never heard from Cody again. He never dared look in the register to see his status.

“I thought I was the last one,” Kix admits, eyes closed. A single tear runs down his left cheek. Fox’s heart constricts. So did he in a way. The major difference was that he could hope that some of his brothers were still alive.

“Not anymore,” he tells him and, when Kix taps his forehead with his own, Fox tries not to tremble. It’s not how he expected a potential reunion with one of his brothers but he doesn’t care. He’s not alone anymore.

Brother, he whispers. Kix says it back, brother, a simple word, but Fox knows, with that simple word, that they’ll both be okay as long as they stay together.

**Author's Note:**

> Your honor, I love him; Fox is my boy and I cherish him, I swear
> 
> don't @ me I'm already a mess (:


End file.
